“You have forty-three dollars in the blue jar.”
“Forty-seven.”
“I counted.”
“Then why did you say forty-three?”
“To see if you knew.”
Caleb looked at her.
“That is manipulative.”
“I’m ten.”
“You’ll become dangerous.”
Sofia smiled.
Then looked more serious.
“You didn’t take money?”
“She was stranded.”
“That is still work.”
Caleb opened refrigerator.
Almost empty.
Eggs.
Milk.
Half a container of chili.
He closed.
Sofia watched.
“Dad.”
“I know.”
“Electric bill is Friday.”
“I know.”
“You could have taken money.”
Caleb leaned against counter.
He did not like that his daughter knew electric bill dates.
Children should know birthdays.
School holidays.
Favorite songs.
Not utility deadlines.
He had tried to keep money anxiety away from her.
Children notice anyway.
“Sometimes you help because you can.”
Sofia crossed arms.
“That sounds like something Mom would say before giving away our groceries.”
Caleb laughed.
Marisol had done that.
Twice.
Maybe three times.
“Your mother was irresponsible.”
“She was nice.”
“She was both.”
Sofia smiled.
Then:
“Was the lady nice?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty?”
Caleb opened cabinet.
“Sofia.”
“That means yes.”
“It means you have homework.”
“Snow day.”
“Life is unfair.”
The knock came at 7:12 the next morning.
Not one knock.
Three precise knocks.
Caleb was making eggs.
Sofia was still in pajamas.
He looked toward door.
Nobody came to their house at seven in a snowstorm unless something had gone wrong.
He opened.
A man in a black overcoat stood on the porch.
Behind him, the street had become impossible.
Four black limousines.
Two SUVs.
Drivers.
Security.
Neighbors standing on porches.
Curtains moving.
Across the road, Mrs. Hanley had forgotten she was holding a shovel.
The man spoke.
“Mr. Reyes?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Aaron Pike.”
“I work for Vale Holdings.”
Caleb stared.
“What?”
Before Pike could explain, the rear door of the second limousine opened.
Vivienne stepped out.
She wore a camel coat this morning, dark trousers, black boots made for actual snow, and no fur hat.
Behind her came a woman in her early sixties.
Silver-blonde hair.
Tailored charcoal coat.
No visible jewelry except a watch.
She had the posture of someone who had spent thirty years watching rooms rearrange themselves when she entered.
Caleb had seen her face before.
Newspapers.
Business magazines.
Television mounted behind Ruthie’s counter.
Helena Vale.
Founder and chairwoman of Vale Mountain Holdings.
Hotels.
Ski resorts.